So Much For That
by K9Lasko
Summary: What he ended up with was a whole lot of nothing.


**Title: "**So Much For That"  
**Spoilers: **S11E01 Whisky Tango Foxtrot; S11E02 Past, Present, and Future  
**Rating: **K+  
**Characters:** Tony DiNozzo, Ziva David, Tim McGee  
**Challenge: **Originally intended for the NFA "Farewell to Arms" challenge, but I ran into a pesky deadline issue.

**Author's Note:** This is very much a "re-imagined storyline" depicting Ziva's farewell. A terminal prognostication, if you will, while the "real deal" slugs you in the face. I started writing this before the airing of S11E01 and continued writing it, only sparingly changing details, past the airing of S11E02. To put it bluntly, I wasn't a huge fan of "Past, Present, and Future," but not for the reasons some may think. I kind of wish it never happened. I don't claim that this is close to canon events at all, because it's not. It doesn't even follow the same timeframe. Yay!

* * *

"_The love you bring won't mean a thing."  
_- Travis, "Sing"

**So Much For That**

She threw a rock at his feet. Hard. It landed with a thud, lifting a small cloud of dust as it did. Yet still he advanced, and still she retreated, tossing another missile. And another. Like warning shots.

"Stop following me, Tony. Go home."

Ziva had traveled this dirt path many times as a child, walked through this same grove of olive trees, heavy with fruit. With her schoolmates, she threw rocks at the stray dogs that often followed. They had dim hopes of being tossed a bit of lamb, the corner of a sandwich, something, anything.

Like Tony, following with dim hopes of taming her and forcing her home. Where was home now? Nowhere, everywhere? With this man who seemed more than willing to follow her to Hell and back again?

His blind devotion was terrifying.

"Go home," she repeated, the words sharp. "Stop following." She then cursed at him in Hebrew - hateful, frustrated little barbs. He wouldn't understand them, couldn't. That was what made it easier for her to inject them into him like venom. Ziva wished this were a mere stray dog problem; Israeli dogs understood simple things like Hebrew curses and thrown rocks.

Tony didn't stop, lag behind, or even duck. "No," he said. "I've been looking all over for you." He stared at her with foolhardy determination. The sun had already started bleaching his hair and scorching his skin. He'd skipped a few shaving sessions. Probably a few showers as well. "Where were you?"

"Right here," Ziva answered. She grabbed for another rock. She knew how ridiculous they looked. She wanted to grab his stupid face and tell him what a fool he was. He wasn't safe here, with her or anywhere around her. She was hiding. This was her immediate plan: go to ground and stay there for a long time. Forever maybe.

Tony was worried; it made his voice tight and serious. "I've been wandering around this town for days."

Frustration strengthened Ziva's throw - and improved her aim. A rock bounced off of Tony's thigh. He grimaced, but easily brushed off the dust stain left behind on his pants.

"You can stop throwing rocks at me now," he said.

Just to contradict him, Ziva picked up another. It was the biggest one yet. Tony's natural sense of self-preservation kicked in. He watched Ziva's hand warily as she stepped closer and closer. When she came within two feet, his nerves gave out. He licked his lips and moved a step backwards.

Ziva quirked a brow. "This one is not meant for you." She tossed it aside and studied his face, fuzzy and oily from a few days of rough living. He smelled like booze, sweat and suntan lotion. "You should not have followed me."

"What was I supposed to do?"

"Stay where you belong," Ziva suggested, tone flat and serious. She resumed her walk towards a cluster of homes built alongside the grove.

"They shot up my place cartel-style!" Tony went to follow. This time there were no rocks lobbed his way. And then he repeated, "What was I supposed to do!"

Ziva looked back at him in confusion. "Who? When?"

"Thought you might know who."

"Nobody told me," she answered after a brief silence. "Are you okay?"

"Well, nobody could reach you. I tried, believe me, I tried. Gibbs. McGee. We all tried. You were gone. And yeah, I'm okay."

"I came here. This is where I was the whole time."

"That was my first thought."

Ziva noted the nervous look in his eye. His t-shirt, one size too small. The barely discernible tremor of his hand. "Come on." Ziva grabbed his wrist, like she might do to a lost child. "Come with me."

* * *

The house was modest but well kept, tucked away from the main road and surrounded by a wide variety of botanical greenery. A sandy path cut through two low rising dunes. A cool breeze dried the sweat that beaded on Tony's face. He watched as Ziva unlocked the front door and disappeared inside, after first removing her sandals. He followed at a distance, nudging the door shut behind him.

His eyes did a sweep. Ceramic tile floors. Open floor plan. One, maybe two bedrooms. A backdoor leading to a veranda. Tony walked the perimeter of the living room. He judged the television, which was nothing special. "Nice place," he commented.

"Belongs to an old friend who is out of town," Ziva answered as she made two glasses of water.

"How convenient." Tony moved into the hallway. "And gracious." He found the bedroom. The bed was made but the top sheet was rumpled. There weren't many personal effects out and about. No picture frames. No dusty knick-knacks.

"Are you thirsty?" she called out to him.

Tony popped a head back into the kitchen area. He narrowed his eyes. "Why are there cucumbers in the water?"

"I like it that way. Very refreshing after a long walk spent throwing rocks at an irritating friend."

He didn't laugh. "This isn't your friend's house."

"What does it matter?" Ziva's voice was sharp and impatient.

"Just saying." He took a glass and started gulping down the water. Some of it trickled down his chin. He set it down, empty.

"Good?" she asked.

"Very good." Tony pushed the glass towards her a little.

Ziva reached for the pitcher. "You'll want to take a shower. You stink."

Tony nodded and drank, preoccupied by the cool liquid sliding across his tongue. Once his thirst was sated, then he'd bathe himself. And only after that would he try to convince her to come home. Tony wasn't leaving without her. He hadn't wandered greater Tel Aviv for three days as a vagrant for nothing. Gibbs had instructed him to find her, so he did. And here he was.

Here he was.

"If you drink any more of that, you will throw it up," Ziva broke into his blissful hydration. "And I won't have that in a _friend's_ house." She took away the glass and set it in the sink. "Go." She pointed towards the bathroom. "Towels are in the cabinet."

Tony wiped at his chin with the back of his hand before patting his waterlogged belly. "Good call, Zee-vah."

She rolled her eyes. "Hurry up."

"What's the rush? Hot date?"

"No, I have to figure out what to do with _you_."

* * *

Tony massaged the shampoo into his scalp. He let the dirt and dried sweat slough off his skin, aided by the lukewarm water. The suds swirled around the drain. He took his time, scrubbing and kneading sore, aging muscles. He didn't bother shaving, and not only because he feared using Ziva's leg razor. He hadn't tried facial hair in years. Maybe he could re-imagine himself over the next few days. Become a different person.

When the water finally ran clear, he twisted the knob to the off position. For a minute, he just stood in place, looking down at his feet. At the rest of his body. Naked and wet. The time for his next move was fast approaching, and he didn't yet have a strategy. He had to play this one right. But deep down, he already knew he was losing.

* * *

The blade of a kitchen knife bit into the thin skin of a raw spud as it was reduced to cubes.

"Wow," a voice came from the hallway. "How long was I in the shower?"

"Long enough. I am starting dinner." Ziva looked up from her work. Tony was dressed in the same pants but a clean t-shirt, his hair wet and messy. He had kept his whiskers. She smiled lightly with reserved affection. "Are you hungry?"

"Sure." He sat on a kitchen stool and rubbed at his face.

"Tell me about your apartment," Ziva pressed, turning her knife on a few helpless bell peppers.

Tony shrugged. "I didn't get Swiss-cheesed. That's a plus."

She paused before slowly setting the knife down. "Tony," she looked at him. _Really_ looked at him. "I'm sorry I wasn't there."

He shook his head, avoiding her eyes. "I'm glad you weren't. It was… a bit of a shock. Things are… not right back home. SecNav getting blown to hell…"

"Forgive my honesty, but things do not look right here either," she pointed out. "Things are not right with you."

"I'll bounce back," Tony assured. The quiet pressed upon them. The only ambient sounds came from the onions simmering in the pan and the clock on the wall marking the seconds.

He shifted towards her suddenly, but Ziva moved away, turning back to her cooking. "I am arranging an airline ticket for you," she forced herself to say. "Tomorrow morning. Early. A cab will pick you up."

A block of ice settled in Tony's belly; she might as well have stabbed him with her kitchen knife.

* * *

Morning came quickly and found Ziva alone in the house. She stood in her rumpled sleeping clothes, bare feet becoming numb on the chilled tile, and gazed at the foldaway cot. The sheets were thrown back, and there was still an indention left from his body.

She knew he had slept; this was where she had left him, inebriated from the arak she'd invited him to try. Drunk, they had kissed, lazy and sloppy, pressing into each other like familiar lovers. Afterwards, Ziva had retreated to her own bed, but she had not slept. She spent the night staring at the moonlight spread out across the floor, watching as it shifted from left to right. She didn't know yet who she was, or where she was going, or whom she was going with. Or why.

Tony's love was intense and bright. What he wouldn't do… For her. For them. For the future he had no doubt imagined.

It was unhealthy, Ziva settled with. She would not - could not - cure whatever ailed him. They couldn't help each other if they couldn't first help themselves.

But still his absence this morning mocked her. His backpack remained tucked in the corner. So he was not gone, but not here.

A car horn blared outside. The cab had come, like she'd requested. Ziva's eyes turned to the kitchen counter, where the flight itinerary sat untouched.

* * *

Tony let the crashing sounds of the sea take him away as he sat sprawled on the sand. He picked at a few shells in his immediate area. He gazed at them, searching for some sort of merit, before he tossed them away. Rejected. A small pile of keepers sat by his left foot.

A shadow passed over him; he squinted up to find Ziva, unbrushed hair forced back into a messy ponytail. Her mouth was set in a thin frown. "We must hurry," she spoke with that same emotionless burr she had taken to lately. "You will miss your flight."

"What makes you think I'm leaving?" he countered.

"You will."

It was almost threatening, and it prompted Tony to get to his feet, pile of shells forgotten. The sand stuck to him. "What is your problem, anyway? Are you this resistant to companionship?"

"From you, yes," Ziva admitted.

"What is it that you need that I can't give you?" Tony begged. "What is it? Just tell me, and I'll fix it. I'll try harder."

"It is not that simple, Tony. I cannot wish these problems away. I cannot make myself right. You cannot make me right. Who I am- What I am-" Ziva had crossed her arms in front of her. "You can keep trying, but at the end of it all, there will be nothing left of you."

Tony studied her, scrutinized her expression, searching desperately for some sort of tell. Something he could work with. "I can keep trying," he finally said.

"You are a fool." Ziva looked down at the pile of shells.

"I won't go." Tony turned away, movements angry. He kicked at the shells, scattering them. He walked towards the water, getting close enough for the waves to touch his feet.

Ziva watched him go, a solitary figure against the swells of the sea.

* * *

She made him a breakfast of things he liked. Eggs, beaten and scrambled with milk. Toasted bread dripping with butter. Orange-pineapple juice. But no bacon.

Maybe it was an apology, or maybe it was just an excuse for something to do.

She watched him eat, observed how he carefully balanced the eggs on top of the toast. They didn't speak. The weirdness of whatever happened last night and this morning's argument hovered over them like a bad smell. Tony's desperation had shown itself fully, as did Ziva's desire for self-imposed solitude. They were two people trapped on vastly different planes of reality.

"How is McGee? Is he safe?" Ziva suddenly pressed.

Tony put down his last bite of egg-encrusted toast and rubbed at the back of his neck. "That's the thing."

"What happened?"

He backtracked, feeling contrite. "No, no. Nothing bad. It's just that…He, uh, he came with me."

"What do you mean 'he came with you'?" She stood up from where she had been leaning against the counter, gauging Tony's progress through his meal.

"He came with me," he parroted.

"Here?" Ziva asked, incredulous, before demanding specifics, "Israel here. Or here here."

Tony started tracing invisible patterns on the countertop.

"Tony." She drew his attention once more. "Where is he?"

"I ditched him."

"You 'ditched' him. When did you do this?"

"Look, I wanted to come here alone. Off the grid, so to speak. But Gibbs sent McGee along with me. Said I shouldn't be alone."

"Why doesn't he want you alone?"

"I might have… freaked out a bit. After the apartment shooting. And McGee was gung-ho about coming for you. Protecting you. Look, I'm tired." Tony pushed the plate aside and moved towards the couch. "I'll clean up later."

Ziva stopped him with her hand. "Freaked out?"

"I got scared, okay? There. I admit it."

"You said you were fine."

"No, I said I'd bounce back. Eventually. Just like you will. We will," Tony emphasized, bringing the conversation back around to them.

"So you just left McGee?" Ziva held his arm a bit tighter. "Where is he now?"

"Knowing Tim, he's probably at the same hotel." Tony looked a bit guilty. It hadn't been his original intention to trick McGee like that.

"Which one is it?" Ziva shook him a little. "Somebody is trying to kill you and me. What makes you think McGee is safe?"

"I wouldn't leave him in danger; I know what I'm doing," Tony argued.

"Quite frankly, I do not think you know at all what you are doing." She stared him straight in the eye. "You are distracted by me. Obsessed."

"No," he denied.

"You are afraid, and you did not know where to go."

"I was afraid, but not anymore."

"I can still see it, Tony. I am not stupid." She moved away from him, sweeping in between the bedroom and the bathroom hurriedly. "He is probably worried. Beyond worried."

"I should have-"

"Just tell me where I can find him."

* * *

They met at a bustling café in the midst of a lunch rush. Ziva spotted him almost immediately in the outdoor seating area. He had gotten a nice tan, at least, and that was saying a lot for a man with blindingly pale skin. He was looking away from her, towards the sidewalk thick with pedestrians. He appeared unharmed.

Tel Aviv was much like any other city. Especially in this business district. The main thoroughfares stretched out like canyons, glass buildings reaching into the blue sky.

Ziva slid into the chair opposite of McGee. She wrapped a hand around his and gave it a brief squeeze. "Shalom, my friend."

McGee turned his head and blinked, almost not believing that she'd come. He let out a breathy sigh of relief. "God, I'm so glad to see you right now."

She pushed her sunglasses up on top of her head and settled in for the duration. Judging by the crowd at this place, service would be slow. But they weren't here for the hospitality. "Likewise, McGee."

"Where's Tony?" McGee asked immediately, leaning forward.

"I left him at the house."

"Is he okay?"

Ziva smiled softly.

"Are _you_ okay?" he asked, eyebrows knit together in that classic look of deep concern.

She noticed that - despite the complimentary tan already bestowed upon him from the Israeli sun - there were dark patches under his eyes. Ziva had no doubt that McGee had been doing a lot of what he excelled at: worrying. She knew that Tony had been the direct cause of much of that. "I am fine. Although you look a bit… strung out."

McGee sighed again and rubbed his hands over his face. "I've been out of my mind, Ziva. I woke up and he was gone. He took his backpack and everything. I looked everywhere. Everywhere, Ziva. God, I didn't want to think what might have happened to him. Three days! I had to somehow refill a prescription for Xanax, and then-"

"Tim," she tried to interrupt his rambling.

"They shot up his apartment. You know that, right? Like gang-style. It was crazy. You know what bullet spray does to a DVD collection? Jesus Christ. We found him in there just sitting against the wall, covered in broken glass and bits of plaster. He was laughing. Hysterically." He raked his fingers through his thinning hair. He looked away. His eyes were suspiciously glassy. "I'm just really stressed right now."

Ziva again reached out to squeeze his hand. "He's safe, Tim. I do not know how, but he found me."

He shook his head and pulled away. "You're the next target, Ziva. That's what they're all saying. Are you really safe here?"

"McGee, I knew I was the next target ever since the night Bodnar fell off that boat. I am not in need of protection. Not from you. Definitely not from Tony. I need you to take him home. Can you do that for me?"

"We're not leaving without you, Ziva. _I'm_ not leaving without you."

"You are too loyal for your own good. But I guess that is what I love about you, Tim."

"I'm still not leaving."

"You sound like Tony," Ziva frowned, but for a while they just sat there and looked at each other, silently figuring out where the other stood.

* * *

"I'm so pissed at you, Tony," McGee growled even as he hugged the man without mercy.

Tony shifted uncomfortably; McGee wasn't usually one to hug. He liked his space, his personal bubble. To show this amount of outward affection was telling of the anguish he'd gone through for the past few days.

"I'm sorry," Tony said, although the truth didn't really reach his eyes.

They stood in the kitchen of Ziva's borrowed cottage. She had gone to walk the beach, but only after promising that she wouldn't suddenly cut and run. Not now, at least. Tony seemed oddly glued to her side. He followed her like a shadow. Now, forced apart for what seemed like the first time since finding her, Tony looked uncomfortably bereft.

"You should have told me what you were doing," McGee went on, frustrated by Tony's lack of remorse. "I thought-"

"I found her," Tony said. The statement was laid bare at McGee's feet.

"I know you did, Tony," McGee attempted to soothe.

"But I don't think I'm enough."

Gently, McGee took a hold of his friend by the elbows. "Don't do that to yourself," he spoke, a determined look in his eyes. "You'll be okay. She has her own demons."

* * *

Ziva and McGee sat on the veranda together, sipping vodka and pineapple juice and gazing with wistful hope into the darkness of the surrounding backyard. Tony had turned in earlier - exhausted by his newfound paranoia - and had long fallen asleep on his cot, spread out and hidden under the blankets.

The small cottage was becoming crowded. McGee would take the couch tonight. Ziva would keep the bedroom. She insisted that they all could trade and rotate, but Tony stressed that the cot was helping his back and McGee could never force anybody to sleep on a couch when he'd be able to make do with it himself.

"We need to discuss things," Ziva announced to the open air, voice soft.

McGee nodded and crunched an ice cube between his teeth.

"About where I will go from here. Tim, I am not going back-"

"Ziva-" McGee immediately moved to argue, which was so unlike him. Too much time spent with Tony.

"No," Ziva shook her head. "Please. Just listen. I know you are a good listener. It is why I love you so much."

McGee snorted. "I thought you loved me because I'm loyal."

"That, too. You are an amazing friend, Tim."

He looked doubtful and shy as he sipped his drink.

"So will you listen and not judge?" she urged.

He replied, "Always. Anything for you."

"I will not be going back with you, or Tony. I cannot. There are things I must do. Things I want to do."

"I don't understand."

"I know, Tim, but you need to try, please. I have gone down so many roads, but still I have not found what I'm looking for. I do not know who I am. I need to know who I am." She went on, explaining in great detail missed chances and mistaken junctures in her life. Ari. Her father. Everybody she'd put an end to, willingly or unwillingly. Gibbs, and her loyalty to him. Tony and his obsessions, but also his love and his devotion. Things she had done; things she hadn't done. Things she ought to do; things she ought to say.

Throughout this spoken manifesto, McGee had fixed a thoughtful little frown on his face, like he was trying to get the facts straight in his head. Ever the pragmatist, he boiled it all down to one question: "Is this like a midlife crisis or something?"

Ziva opened her mouth to deny that, but then shut it again. "What?"

"You don't need to explain yourself," McGee shrugged. "If you need to stay, stay. Do what you need to do."

Ziva appeared surprised. "That's it?"

"You've already made up your mind. I can see that."

She looked down at the melting ice in her glass. "I have."

"I wanted to fight for you, Ziva," McGee admitted.

"I know."

"And so does Tony."

"He will be the difficult one."

"Only because he's stubbornly in love with you."

"I know."

"But you're not in love with him."

"I love him," she argued.

McGee snorted, "C'mon, Ziva, I'm not Dr. Phil or anything, but if you were in love with him, we wouldn't be having this discussion. You'd make it work somehow."

"I-" Ziva paused. Damn, how had McGee managed that? "I am not in love with him," she whispered. "Can we change the subject?"

"Sure." He crunched on another ice cube.

"How is Delilah?"

"I like her," he stated. It was the blunt truth.

"You are a good man."

"Oh, come on…" McGee blushed.

"Do not let Tony tear you down."

He shook his head. "I don't worry about that anymore."

"Watch over him."

"I will," he promised, his expression sober.

They turned to each other once more, gazed into the other's eyes, searching for truths or lies or consequences. All they found was quiet friendship made strong by eight years of shared experiences. The only conversation now came from the insects, soothing and rhythmic. The sea roared beyond the dunes.

"I'm gonna miss you," McGee finally whispered.

"I will miss you, too."

They found it difficult to part after hugging goodnight, McGee to the couch and Ziva to the bedroom. They could have talked until the sun came up, if they had let themselves. About anything and everything. They stepped lightly around Tony, who had since curled on his side, breathing softly in sleep.

McGee lay awake for hours, feet hanging over the edge of the couch. He'd come here to protect Ziva, but he knew she wasn't the one who needed it.

* * *

Tony knew what was coming. He'd seen it in McGee's guilty look this morning, and in the way he had started reorganizing his carry-on.

They were oh for one, and it felt like they hadn't even tried.

He had wanted to snap at him. Quitter! But he hadn't, because he knew that McGee had looked at this situation objectively, while Tony roiled in frustration and wishful thinking.

She decided to break it to him early - gently - after they'd stretched their legs on a meandering beach walk and soaked their ankles in the saltwater. They watched the sea birds dip and soar. A man fished off of a rock jetty a half-mile up the beach. Fishing boats trawled towards the horizon, where the turquoise water met clear blue sky. The air was fresh and dry, the wind cool as it swept in from some distant place.

She had to speak louder than the waves. He forced himself to listen.

* * *

He shaved before the flight home. He hadn't become a different person; he'd been the same person, but with facial hair.

"So much for that."

He watched the hairs wash down the sink.

"You nicked yourself," McGee mentioned later from where he sat on the couch, paging through a paperback.

Tony felt the sting as he prodded around his jaw line. "Great."

* * *

On the airplane, jammed into small seats and forced to breathe recycled air, Tony discovered that Ziva had slipped him a little parting gift. He stared at it in disbelief.

"One short," he whispered to nobody but himself.

"What was that?" McGee asked, a bit too loud due to his apparent altitude-deafness. An in-flight magazine sat open on the tray table above his lap.

Tony considered it for a moment, before saying instead, "This is stupid."

"Tell me about it."


End file.
